


New Year’s Eve Reprise

by fab_ia



Series: the bed that we made together [1]
Category: Time Bombs (Podcast)
Genre: Buzzfeed quizzes, Multi, New Year's Eve, casual discussions of explosives, for what it’s worth teller isn’t straight midlands just an idiot, genuine concern regarding midlands sanity, self indulgent and gratuitous fluff, teller being teller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28453140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/pseuds/fab_ia
Summary: ‘“I think,” Bob says, “that it means this is gonna be a really, really good year.”“Well,” Midland says, “I’m looking forward to it, then.”’(Unit 214 works night shift on New Year’s Eve again. Plus: Buzzfeed quizzes, pyromania, coffee and midnight.)
Relationships: Robert “Radio Bob” Hansen/Simon Teller/Mark Midland
Series: the bed that we made together [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118591
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	New Year’s Eve Reprise

“Wow,” Midland says as he leans back in his seat as his phone buzzes again, “word sure does spread fast around the department, huh? That’s number six.”

“They’re only asking because they think you’ve gone mad,” Teller says with his head resting against Bob’s shoulder, from what Midland can see. “Most of them have worked with us - with _me -_ before and it, uh, well… I guess it’s left an impression.”

That would probably, Midland assumes, be because Teller is absolutely fucking insane - brilliant on so many levels, definitely, there’s no way to deny it, but combined with the urge he has to prove he’s better than everyone else and his near-desperate need to do something impressive, he’s generally regarded as the guy you don’t go near when you want reasonable security that your coworker _isn’t_ going to be the one getting you blown up. Half the murmurs he’s caught in the break room are about a record attempt (which he’s all-too familiar with, and still tries to sit with Bob between them when he has coffee now); one of the few times he ever _has_ made a mistake (few and far-between, somehow); or about whoever’s cheating on who, or going out with who, which he can’t bring himself to care as much about. 

Hot in the rumour mill currently, apparently, is the fact that Midland’s turned down a transfer offer, _again,_ in favour of keeping his place with 214, even with assurances that he wouldn’t miss out on any field experience. He’d expected it to be less of a big deal, since it’s either the third or fourth (or fifth, or sixth, et cetera, repeat ad infinitum). Clearly - judging by the texts that all read along the lines of _has he hypnotised you or something_ \- he had been very wrong in that assumption. 

Bob hums. “To be fair,” he says, “the things they say aren’t _wrong._ You did nearly blow us up last year.”

“Not that much,” Teller scoffs. “It only happened, like, twice, and only one of those was that big a deal.”

“You also _are_ kind of nuts,” Bob continues, waving a hand as if dismissing what Teller said and ignoring the disgruntled look on his face. “What is it you always say, Midland?”

“Emotional dysregulation.”

“That’s the one.”

When he glances over, Midland sees Teller with his mouth open to reply with something, before he silently closes it and just scowls instead. He wonders if he’s remembering the way he’d excitedly yelled _“it’s_ just _a bomb”_ to the reporter. He _hopes_ he is. He and Bob have taken to bringing it up at any given moment, because Teller’s patented ‘irritated but not enough to get really mad’ face seems to get funnier every time.

_God,_ Midland thinks, looking away and lifting his cup to his lips to try and hide the grin he didn’t mean to let show, _I love these idiots so much._

Which. Well, he’s been trying really hard not to think about that, given Teller’s deeply unfortunate heterosexuality - two wives, four girlfriends that he can remember off the top of his head, none of which had ended well and all of which had, at some point, left Teller absolutely miserable - and Bob’s apparent lack of interest in dating whatsoever, with all Midland knows of his type being “guys”. It all adds up to the affection being, in effect, pointless and doomed to fail in one way or another. He doesn’t care enough to try and move on, yet. 

“So,” Teller says after a few minutes of relative silence, outside of low music on the radio and the traffic outside, “you think they’ll try to blow up Penn Station again?”

“I vote we let them, this time,” Bob says, sticking one hand in the air. “No?”

“No, Bob,” Midland says. “We’re _not_ letting the arsonists blow up half a street with C4.”

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

Teller hums. “You know what’s scary, Bob? I really can’t tell if you’re kidding anymore, ‘cause you sound pretty damn serious about this whole thing.”

Bob just shrugs at that, his expression schooled back into something more resembling neutrality instead of trying for his ‘I’m so innocent, I’d never do anything wrong, ever’ face. Again - Midland’s very familiar with that one. With a snort, Teller goes back to draping himself against Bob’s side, letting the radio tech take a good amount of his weight rather than supporting himself. Normal, for them. Teller’s a big fan of physical contact and touch, fond of leaning against and draping himself all over Midland and Bob. He’d stop if either of them asked him to, Midland’s sure. 

He glances at the clock. Two-zero-three-one. Half past eight. Still a good four hours left before the end of their shift, scheduled until midnight again because, according to Teller’s hypothesis, they’re probably the unit least likely to call in sick when they’re pencilled in to work New Year’s Eve. After the year before, the absolute _disaster_ his final day of probation had become, Midland had been eager to have the day off, but had agreed to it easily enough. He can, he figures, just avoid Teller when either of them have coffee in hand. He can _try_ not to get wrapped up in bickering with him again. 

“I’m bored,” Teller declares, cutting into the quiet discussion Midland and Bob had been holding - whether or not any insects had made their way into space accidentally by crawling into the shuttles before finding themselves in zero-G - and getting both of their attentions enough that they turn to stare at him. Or Midland stares, at least, since Teller’s voice is muffled by Bob’s shoulder, where his face is half-hidden, pressed against the fabric of his shirt. 

“Yeah,” Midland says. “We can tell.” He wouldn’t be surprised if Teller’s next idea was to at least make an attempt to drape himself over their laps. 

“No, seriously. I’m _really_ bored.”

“Bored enough to make a bomb of your own so we get a call?”

Teller’s hesitation before answering is enough that Bob wraps a hand around his wrists, earning an indignant and unintelligible yell that Midland would describe as more of a squawk. “You can have them back,” he says, chin atop Teller’s head, “when you promise not to let the pyromania take over.”

“It won’t.”

“Mm…?”

“I _promise,”_ Teller huffs, sitting up and massaging his wrists when Bob lets go. “Fuck, Bob,” he says, “at least take me out for dinner, first, man.”.

“I have,” Bob says. “We went out _last night.”_

“Oh. Oh, that’s true. Huh.”

“Does that mean I get to do it without you whining, now?”

“Shit, I guess so.”

“You two,” Midland says, “are so _fucking_ weird.”

“There’s nothing weird about stopping your best bro from building a bomb to give you something to do at work, Midland,” Bob says, Teller nodding solemnly over his shoulder. 

“Every second of every shift,” Midland says, “you remind me why people think I’m mad for not transferring.”

“You don’t leave ‘cause you love us so much,” Teller beams, the faintest hint of pink in his cheeks. “Right?”

 _Ha,_ Midland thinks, _ha! Good one!_

“I guess it’s something like that,” he says instead, flat, keeping his face steady for a moment before he snorts. Teller’s indignant face and Bob’s ‘trying really hard not to laugh really loud’ face are too much for anyone to fight, he decides. 

* * *

Slow shifts are the _worst,_ it’s long-since been universally agreed in the workplace and explicitly stated by one of the three of them every time they have one. Slow shifts are the worst because they have to find something to entertain themselves with, and there are only so many Buzzfeed quizzes Midland can do before he considers putting his head through the window.

“Wow,” Bob says, “I guess I’m banana bread. I’m gonna add that to my Twitter bio. People love me ‘regardless of the confusion’.”

“Soft pretzels,” Teller says. “What the hell does ‘you’re a bit twisted, and super salty’ mean?”

Bob pulls a face. “Means you can be a judgemental asshole, but also lovable.”

“I _try.”_

Midland can only stare at his result and wonder how, exactly, his decisions led him to this point. “Gluten-free arepa,” he says. “What the _fuck_ is gluten-free arepa?”

“Wow,” Teller says. “It means you’re really accommodating for people with coeliac disease.”

Window. Head. More appealing by the second. 

He pulls out his own phone - desperate messages seven and eight ask him how he isn’t sick of Teller and Bob yet, and he bites down the smile. The thing is, most people get on well with both Teller _and_ Bob, at least in small doses, but they’re all-too aware of the fact the two of them working together is a sure-fire recipe for disaster at some point. 

Midland likes to think he’s the one that keeps them from snapping and letting Teller blow up half of Manhattan. It wouldn’t come as much of a surprise if that was fairly close to the truth, either. 

“God,” Bob says quietly, “now I really want banana bread.”

“Don’t we all,” Midland sighs. 

“I don’t,” Teller says. It sounds like he’s frowning but, given that he’s still leaning against Bob, Midland can’t really tell. 

“You don’t like bananas,” Bob says. In lieu of a real, verbal response, Teller makes a noise that could either be agreement or outrage at the insinuation he could ever be picky about something. “You _don’t!”_

“I don’t think I like you anymore, either,” Teller says. 

“You wound me, boss.”

“Good.”

Bob insists that Teller’s hurt his feelings at least three times a week, often enough that Midland’s finally got used to it and doesn’t react like he did at first, when he’d instantly try to defuse the situation he thought he could see between the two, which had always made Teller laugh while red-faced from something or other and had made Bob try his best _not_ to laugh. He’d usually failed. He’d - failed the majority of the time. 

He’s accustomed to it, at this point. Half of Teller’s sense of humour is being an ass and the rest, like Bob’s, is concerned with puns that make Midland consider buying gold marker to scrawl ‘Mark’s Head Here’ in pride of place on the window, exactly in the centre. It wouldn’t be unwarranted, either. Their puns are _awful._

“Sucks we don’t finish before midnight,” Teller says a little while later, head propped up on one hand as he stares out of the window. “We could’ve gone for drinks again.”

“Did last year actually count as ‘going out’?” Midland frowns. “Bob just - had those. Did you ever find out where -“

“As far as I’m concerned, they appeared out of thin air,” Teller says. Midland has to admire that in him, that dedication to _almost_ being good at his job and caring about the law, even when their job is only ‘stop things blowing up and people dying’. Midland’s pretty sure Teller’s broken the law at least a little before. “I have no idea what alcohol you’re even talking about. There’s never been beer in this van _ever.”_

“Yeah boss, that’s gonna fool the NYPD’s mics,” Midland says, rolling his eyes. 

“It will.” 

“Uh-huh.”

Teller gives him a look that Midland can only describe as his ‘shut the fuck up, Mark’ face, because it’s the one he pulls when he really wants to tell him to shut up but also doesn’t want to deliberately antagonise him. Midland stares back, flat, until he sighs and leans his other arm on his shoulder. 

“Hello,” says Midland. 

Teller snorts a tiny bit, not bothering with a real reply and letting things fall silent while they wait for Bob to get back from his coffee expedition. It’s nice, Midland thinks, that he trusts them not to start arguing the second they’re left alone, and that he isn’t going to come back to a crime scene of some kind. 

A year ago, Midland’s pretty sure he would have complained if Teller did this, leant on him without any question of it being okay. Now, he doesn’t mind. It’s just what he does. 

“Success!” Bob yells, startling him from his reverie and Teller from his Tetris-induced concentration, both of them looking up sharply to where he’s holding a cardboard stand with their drinks in it. “Sorry about the wait! They couldn’t find any caramel for a while and it was a whole _thing…”_

“Please simplify your order,” Midland says.

“Never.”

* * *

It’s hard to stifle the yawn that comes as he looks down at his watch to check the time, so Midland doesn’t bother - covers his mouth with one sleeve as he squints at the hands, shivering before he pulls the cuff down to hide the sliver of bare skin it had exposed. It’s a lot colder outside than he’d expected when he was getting dressed earlier that day, just barely warm enough. 

“Here,” Bob says, holding out his scarf. “I don’t need this as _well_ as my hat.”

“You’re the best,” Midland says. “... shit. Another year over already. Where the hell did it go?”

“Felt quick,” Teller nods, looking down at his own watch. “Not long now.”

They’ve taken their break just before midnight, because there’s no real way they could be expected to miss the end of the year or willingly spend it stuck inside the van with its cocktail of generally-gross smells (now with spilt coffee added to the mix because of an incident where Teller had made one of the trainees jump half a foot in the air when he’d come to ask their supervisor something. Poor thing).

“Two minutes,” Bob says. “I’m glad we’re spending it like this. We can make it a tradition!”

“We could,” Midland nods. “Or, next year, we can take the night off and do this somewhere _warm.”_

Teller gives him a look, careful, one that’s got something behind it Midland can’t fully work out. “There are other ways to be warm than being _inside,_ Midland.”

True, Midland figures, and looks up at the sky. It’s not too busy that he can’t stand in the street and do it, but he still feels eyes on him - Bob and Teller, he assumes, and smiles a little. 

He’s glad he gets to spend this with them again. There’s not really anywhere he’d rather be - his friends have parties to go to that he _really_ doesn’t want invites for, distant family’s out-of-state, and Teller and Bob are here. His friends are here. 

They’re there and, as the clock ticks over to midnight - judging by the fireworks that explode overhead and the shout he can just about hear - Midland thinks, _fuck it,_ and pulls Teller into a kiss. 

Bob’s gasp is _loud_ and the way Teller grabs onto the front of his jacket is unexpected, the way he tries to pull him closer even more so, the way he _kisses back_ least expected of all. Bob’s staring when they break apart, Teller crimson and Midland feeling on top of the world as Bob takes a tentative step closer before Midland does the same to him. 

If this were any other situation, he’d have some sort of security blanket to cover his tracks with, he could argue that there’s some contributing factor that led to him doing this. That led to him, Teller still half-holding his clothes and Bob kissing him back with again-unexpected enthusiasm. 

“Holy shit,” Teller mumbles, before he starts to laugh, pulling Midland into a hug as he’s pulling away from Bob. “Hah - oh, _shit._ Happy New fucking Year, huh?”

“Happy New Year,” Midland says, feeling Teller press a kiss to the side of his head. “It’s good luck, right?”

“I think,” Bob says, pressing his face into Midland’s hair and trying to wrap his arms around both him _and_ Teller, “that it means this is gonna be a really, really good year.”

“Well,” Midland says, head ducked as he laughs while Bob kisses the back of his neck, “I’m looking forward to it, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> it’s time bombs day! so. self indulgent fic of Them at new year bc honestly why not !
> 
> https://www.buzzfeed.com/mathewguiver/which-type-of-bread-are-you here’s the quiz , by the way


End file.
